


Take

by Ladycat



Series: Taking [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bruises, Dom/sub, F/M, M/M, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is beautiful, shadows painting mosaics on her skin, her shivers making them move, shadow-puppets that tell the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take

Atlantis is cool in her darkened, shadowy depths, full of pockets hidden away from the rest of the cold, clear light she fills her hallways with, the brighter flourescents they bring from home. Here she is hidden, mysterious, a labyrinth of choices, of places to hide away from the harsh, blinding danger, the constant pressure of eyes always on you, up above.

Certain spots are well known, their own version of Look Out Hill, of back alleyways that stink without a trace of garbage to dot their length.

John avoids those places, skirting the edges of whispers and moans because he doesn't need to know. Doesn't _want_ to know, the he-does, she-says that no one can escape, no matter how much one tries to tuck themselves away from it. Humans are sexual creatures, comfort-driven and companionable, and the stresses they face make the SGC's -- safe and secure where McDonald's is easily available -- pale in comparison. They are a true outpost, the last resort, last bastion of consumerism run rampant, and the knowledge drives them each in their own way.

They deserve their privacy if nothing else.

But sometimes he can't stop it, can't fight against the beat of his own damned blood, racing fast and hot inside his skin, and he goes. Looks. Watches with avid intensity, greedily glad there's no curved sheen of glass between them and him, nothing to stop him from reaching out, calling out, exposing himself except his own will, his own damnable pride, ignoring the cock that's aching against the pressure of his pants.

Sometimes. Most times, when that happens, because he is stubborn, does value the job, the trust and the connection. But other times...

He's not sure when he started identifying which secret places held the darkest of treasures, which ones were the best to watch, the best to lurk by, hoping they were occupied. He's not sure when he started identifying kinks he prefers, shapes he seeks out with a swallowed moan of want.

He has no idea until he's suddenly _here_ , rocking hard and fast against the bulkhead he hides behind, cock grinding painfully against unyielding metal, because before him is Rodney McKay. Rodney _fucking_ McKay, totally at ease within his skin the way he never is when clothed, watching as a small, trembling woman teases her uniform off for him. At first John thinks it's Katie, tiny, slender Katie who acts like a girl whenever she sees Rodney come clumping down the hallway -- but Katie would never do this, would never shiver as she unhooks the bra from her back, letting her breasts spill out ripe and perfect and high against the curve of her chest, the pale peach of her skin.

Not a scientist, John realizes, biting his own lip until he tastes copper. It's one of _his_ , a marine that doubles as a tiny slip of a girl, Teyla in Earth-form, martial-arts trained to make up for her slight stature and weight.

She is beautiful, he knows. They all know; she's sought after with enough ardor to prove it. But here, and now, now she is _gorgeous,_ shadows painting mosaics on her skin, her shivers making them move, shadow-puppets that tell the tale.

Not twenty hours ago John recalls this woman snapping at Rodney, calling him odious and ignorant.

And now her eyes are locked on Rodney, pink-tipped breasts tight, the faint sheen between her legs, all of it for the man voted most likely to never get laid. Most likely still a virgin.

"Touch yourself," Rodney says, and there's no break in his voice, no high fear making him tremble. There is surety and strength, a power that has John gasping silently into his own fist because _Jesus_. "Spread your legs and let me watch. Good. Good girl."

The girl -- not her name, John can't think her name, not now, he _can't_ \-- tilts her head back, Asian-smooth hair falling back over her shoulders as she widens her legs, hand jerking arrhythmically between her thighs. "Please..." she moans.

"Shut up," Rodney barks and Christ, John's never going to be able to hear Rodney say that again without getting hard, without soaking his damned pants, slicking the wall he's fucking. "Get yourself off."

It's brusque, impersonal, rude and _cruel_ , all of what Rodney is, except his eyes are locked on each twitch the girl makes, glowing blue and gem-stone hard without any light to catch them. His focus is so complete, so _giving_ , that John knows why the girl does this, knows why she's naked and exposed, performing for a man hated as much as he's loved.

It's for the same reason John found himself down in the labs for months, turning on objects that Rodney didn't need help with, just so that laser-intensity could be on him for a few moments, just so he could _matter_ a little bit longer.

The girl sobs as she comes, locked knees trembling and falling until she crumples to the ground, still working her hand, still performing for his pleasure. "Here," Rodney says, strangely gentle, cajoling. She crawls into his lap, limbs spindly and out of control, struggling to take his entire girth inside of her, jerking and making harsh, sobbing cries as he twists, or she does, and it brushes against her all the wrong ways.

John bites the inside of his wrist, band harsh and drying against his gums, fumbling his pants open so he can grip the base of his cock, can hold himself off because he doesn't want to miss a second.

Rodney sighs when she gets him all the way inside, smiling almost lazily, distractedly at the girl who has him. "Good girl," he says again, and John has to squeeze even tighter. You don't survive the military without understand the nature of these kinds of kinks. You don't survive the military without assimilating some of them whether you want to or not. "Very good. You're doing excellent, you know that, right?"

She does, she nods, hair flying, words choked to meaningless noises as she moves, bouncing until Rodney catches her breasts, easing the strain as she rocks up and down, fucking herself onto Rodney's big, fat cock, as thick as the rest of him, sturdy and strong and Jesus, John knows.

He _knows_ why he comes here, why he finds Rodney again and again, a different girl, a different guy, doesn't matter. They all sob and beg and crawl for him, whimpering as he allows them to ride on his cock, and John wants to be one of them. The only one, sucking him off until his jaw burns like fire, body twisted up and riddled with the bite-marks Rodney loves to leave, his insides _torn_ from that fat, perfect cock, and John wants all of it now, while Rodney's like this, telling him _good_ like this is the only job that ever has to be done correctly, the only thing to take pride in ever ever ever.

The girl comes at least three more times just from riding, sodden with sweat and endorphins before she slithers to her knees, sucking Rodney off as he comes the one and only time he ever does on nights like these. There are others, John knows, John's _watched_ , where the encounters are more normal, a girl pressed up against the wall, the curve of her outer lips just visible against the jut of Rodney's cock, moaning as he fucks her with the kind of stamina most women dream about. A man bent over, pert buttocks upturned for Rodney's cock -- and sometimes, rarely, his hand -- and god, that's what John wants too. He wants all of it, wants sex, wants kink and pain and lust and _Rodney_ until he can't think anything else, coming with a cry that has to be heard, can't be missed, but it is, it will be, because Rodney's crying out too, filling the girl's mouth until a thin stream dribbles down her chin and Jesus, John could come again just from watching that, as easily triggered as a girl, wet and hot and squirming inside like there's something alive there.

The girl leaves first. That's always the way of it, no matter what's been done. Rodney always remains, dressed and sated, smiling that smug little smile that has his conquests spitting even as they wobble back to the upper levels, back to real life. Rodney stays. Stares out the window and dreamily contemplates whatever it is that massive brain offers up as a the topic du jeur.

Gasping, breathless, cold from where his cock still grinds into his own release, heedless of how much it hurts because even the hurt is good, John mouths the bite mark on the inside of his wrist, no longer bleeding, loving the shivers of pain, the slow uncurl of fear that Rodney will see and Rodney will know.

John always leaves before Rodney does, never lets himself linger to see if Rodney looks his way, if Rodney knows he's there. He doesn't want to know, doesn't need to. Because if he does it'll be him crawling on all fours, wet and desperate with only a glance, and he can't. They can't.

So he leaves and never looks back and never lets Rodney know -- ever -- that he's his for the taking.


End file.
